Lifeblood
by Mr Ocean
Summary: While Batman faces a new enemy, Bruce Wayne is forced to contend with a rival of his own. Set between Batman Begins and The Dark Knight. Reviews will be appreciated.
1. Keeping Short Accounts

The sun had dropped fast, leaving the penthouse of the Slate Apartments bathed in warped shadows

The sun had dropped fast, leaving the penthouse of the Slate Apartments bathed in warped shadows. Its occupant, Gerry Hollander, rested his careworn head on a soft pillow as he watched the evening news. He had spent much of that Saturday at the office, trying to make several columns of large, suspicious numbers add to zero, as his unusually large pay packet required him to do. His day had gone so badly that he was hardly surprised when his plasma television flickered and switched itself off mid-story.

Sighing heavily, he extended his arm and tried to flick his upright lamp, the only light within reach, on. No response. Flicking the switch a couple more times in frustration, Gerry looked about and saw every appliance in the room was off. Again, there was nothing surprising about this, given the state of Gotham City's power grid. He was a little confused, however, when he looked out his lounge window and saw a couple in the neighbouring apartment building huddled together on their sofa, also watching the evening news.

As he pulled out his cell phone to call maintenance, Gerry gave a start. His bedroom clock radio had been switched on, and was playing a lively classical piece. Gerry was exhausted, but he was no fool. He knew enough to realise that his job was, as far as accounting positions go, a dangerous one, and he could very well be in danger now. He entered 911 into his phone and put his shaking thumb over the call button. As an added precaution, he went to his kitchen drawer and drew out a long, thin carving knife with his other hand, rattling the contents of the drawer as he did.

Gerry stepped almost silently to his room, but he was breathing hard and could find no way to quiet it short of holding it altogether. His pulse thought he had just run up eighteen flights of stairs, and he could feel each beat of his heart throbbing in his left temple. He gave an involuntary start when somebody said his name softly, almost in a whisper.

'Gerry? Is that you?'

Gerry knew he was discovered, but could not recognise the whisper. 'Who is this?'

The whispered voice waited a few seconds before answering. 'See for yourself.'

Gerry was understandably hesitant. When he entered the doorway and saw a man sprawled coolly on his bed, he instinctively hit the call button on his mobile.

The man on the bed was slight and very pale, with blond hair shorn close to his scalp. Gerry's eyes were drawn to the man's nostrils, which were caked with blood. His eyebrows were practically non-existent, giving him a perpetually surprised appearance. There was nothing fearful about the way he sat up and began to close on Gerry. Instead, his forehead was lowered, and he leered from under his non-existent brow.

Gerry lunged at his attacker, thrusting at the man's throat, attempting to catch him before he could get balanced. The attacker slid effortlessly out of the way, but the blow was close enough to glance the attacker's cheek. The wound was small, but blood flowed freely from it.

The attacker lost none of his composure, or his aggression. His fearlessness made Gerry question the wisdom of a second attack, or the usefulness of attempting to flee.

'Now, now, Gerry,' whispered the stranger, his voice barely carrying over the violins playing on the clock radio, as he scraped at the blood with his thin, bony hands. 'I don't have the luxury. Waste not, want not.'

The attacked pulled a tazer from his back pocket with ridiculous ease, his facial expression unchanged. The vacant eyes of his attacker were the last sight Gerry Hollander knew.

Bruce Wayne was preparing himself for a gruelling evening, although he knew it would not be entirely without its pleasures. With Greta, an aspiring actress consisting mostly of legs and waist-length blonde hair, on his left arm, Bruce felt surprisingly ready for a charity benefit. This feeling was heightened by the presence of Helena, the swimsuit model who clung with both of her slender hands to his right arm. Still, not a single head turned when the trio entered. Greta, sensing that she was not about to get as much of the crowd's attention as she had hoped, headed straight for the open bar. Almost immediately, the organiser of the evening, Dr Leslie Thompkins intercepted Bruce and took him by the hand. Dr Thompkins had been a close personal friend of Bruce's late parents, and was responsible for organising the charity benefit to raise funds for Gotham City's largest drug and rehab clinic.

'Bruce, so lovely to see you,' said Dr Thompkins, who also happened to be Bruce's godmother. She stood on her toes to kiss Bruce's cheek and shone with pride.

'And you, as always,' he replied. He motioned toward Helena. 'I'd like you to meet Helena Church. Helena Church, Dr Leslie Thompkins.'

'Oh, you're a doctor?' replied Helena, genuinely perplexed. She spoke slowly, as if she assumed Dr Thompkins to be hard of hearing. 'I thought you'd be retired?'

Bruce winced, but Dr Thompkins bore it admirably, swiftly changing the subject.

'Bruce, dear, there's somebody I'd like you to meet.'

Dr Thompkins whisked Helena and Bruce through the crowd toward a relatively large circle of revellers. At the centre of its focus was a tall man of about Bruce's age, impeccably dressed, and with an All-American jawline that would dwarf most people's entire heads. He seemed particularly eager to meet Bruce, and stopped in the middle of an anecdote about a Romanian ironing board factory while Dr Thompkins made the necessary introductions.

'Bruce Wayne, this is Brad Slate.'

'Mr Slate.' Bruce casually extended a hand.

'Bruce.' Brad Slate nodded a greeting and took the hand, stepping in closer and grinning through a row of perfectly straight teeth. Bruce could not help but notice the way Brad sized him up. 'Call me "Brad",' Slate added, in a deep baritone. It was all Bruce could do to keep from laughing at the pomposity of it all.

Bruce knew Slate only by reputation. Slate was wealthy, and almost self-made; it was the 'almost' part that stung. He had his start at eighteen when he won 15 million as a first division prize in a national lottery. But his positive traits were not limited to extremely good fortune. He had enough ingenuity and discipline to defy statistics and triple his winnings in the next five years. Twelve years on, his holdings were worth just shy of 900 million. Those born into money had little time for him. Others, if they were ambitious, treated him like some kind of a human Blarney stone, staying close and kissing up. Most people were, however, just attracted to the fame, and happy to listen to a fresh, youthful perspective on business.

'Welcome to Gotham,' said Bruce, unmoved by Slate's reception. 'Rumour has it this isn't just a visit?' Bruce wished he was wrong. Otherwise he'd be seeing 'Call me Brad' at every public event for the next fifty years. They were often intolerable as it was.

'That's right, Bruce. I'm planning to operate out of Gotham. Crazy, I know, given the current "situation". But hell, I've never been accused of being "conventional". Quote, unquote.'

If there was one type of person that annoyed Leslie Thompkins, it was the type who used clichés incorrectly. But when somebody has just donated 50,000 to your organization, most shortcomings can be overlooked.

'Brad, why don't you tell Bruce about your new Atlantic shipping operations', she suggested, sensing that Bruce was not about to volunteer to prolong this conversation.

'It would be my pleasure.' There was something about the way the word 'pleasure' forced its away out of his colossal jaw that made Bruce wonder whether breaking it could possibly cause any swelling. The two minutes that followed could have formed the study material for an instructional lecture entitled 'How to Look Interested When You are Actually Thinking About Sailing'. Bruce had a remarkable knack for knowing when to fake a laugh, even when his mind was somewhere in the South China Sea.

Bruce was almost relieved when he realised he had to make an excuse to those present. He had caught sight of the Bat Signal, shining against the backdrop of the misty Gotham sky. He made a hasty excuse involving a feigned phone call and a business problem that those present would be sure to understand, and made an exit. Helena was mildly disappointed.

'Dried?'

'Drained, completely. Only a ounce or two of blood left in the entire body.'

Lieutenant Gordon had told Batman of the remains found in the penthouse of the Slate Apartments. The body had several puncture marks where needles had been inserted into major blood vessels, and the blood drawn from them. There were no prints and no other wounds save for where a modified tazer had pierced the skin. The only other signs of foul play were some hurried, but effective, tinkering with the apartment's electrical systems.

'That's not all,' continued Gordon, in a hushed tone. 'The guy who called it in. Real soft voice. Said he wanted you two to get better acquainted.'

'I can arrange a meeting.' Batman's deep monotone was always reassuring. 'Tell me what you know.'

'His MO matches that of a guy who's been running rampant in LA for years, from what we know. He likes to go to his victims where they're most comfortable, and as far as we can tell, he likes to get a little sport out of it. Cops call him 'The Leech'. Never been caught. Never even left a print. Plenty of DNA, though.'

'Hair?'

'Blood. Where he leaves a victim, he almost always leaves blood. Just not the victim's blood – they never have any wounds to speak of.' Gordon sounded a little disconcerted by the prospect of Gotham becoming the new home for The Leech. Batman cast an eye over him as they stood side by side on the moonlit roof, looking out toward the ocean. Gordon was a good man, and very competent, but with dark rings around his eyes and an unironed shirt, he looked overwhelmed. With half of Arkham still loose, the last thing Gordon needed was an imported killer.

'How do I find him?' asked Batman, terse as always.

'Thought you said you could arrange a meeting.'

Silence. Gordon continued, a little smug.

'He said you'd know when the time was right. That was it. Spoke to him myself – creepy as hell.'

Lieutenant Gordon looked to his right, where Batman had been. Without a sound, Gordon was alone again.


	2. The Night is Red

Alfred exited the elevator to Bruce's new, albeit temporary, home: the penthouse suite at Gotham Century Towers

Alfred exited the elevator to Bruce's new, albeit temporary, home: the penthouse suite at Gotham Century Towers. The suite had been updated significantly for Bruce's particular needs as the richest man in Gotham and its most famous masked vigilante. The butler sighed when he saw the completed work for the first time. It was stylish and modern, but it was going to be a nightmare to keep clean.

Alfred inspected the layout. Everything seemed in order, undamaged and in its natural, pretentious state. There was even a basket of exotic fruit sitting invitingly on the coffee table. Alfred helped himself to a custard apple and read the attached note:

'Bruce: Sorry you had to leave last night. Hope we can take up again where things left off. I'm hosting a poker night at my new pad this Wednesday from 10pm – be super to see you there. Kind Regards, Brad.'

When he had asked Bruce what he thought of Brad Slate the previous night, the answer was only two words, and Alfred didn't care to recall either of them. Perhaps a dragonfruit will change his mind, thought Alfred.

Alfred soon came to the realisation that there was nothing for him to do. Bruce would not arrive from the hotel for at least another half hour, and the movers had done a flawless job. He decided that, in the absence of any real work, he should try his hand at the pinball machine in the games room, to ensure everything was in working order. He was reasonably unsuccessful.

'That's coming out of your salary as a fringe benefit, you realise,' mumbled Bruce. Bruce had slipped in while Alfred approached a free ball.

'I don't think my salary'd cover a game of pinball, sir. You'll 'ave me paying you.'

'Sounds fine to me.'

'Did you see the fruit on the coffee table, sir? From your new friend, Mr Slate.'

'No friend of mine would give me a bowl of exotic fruit without a custard apple.'

Alfred slyly tossed the remainder of the fruit underneath the pinball machine. 'No, indeed, sir.'

Bruce paused a few moments and pretended to examine the machine, passing his eyes up and down the ramps and bumpers. Alfred knew him well enough to know that something was troubling him.

'There's something I didn't tell you last night, Alfred.'

'About the murder, sir?'

Bruce gave a slight nod.

'Gordon didn't just call because he wanted my help. He wanted to warn me.' Bruce paused again. 'Batman works as a symbol of fear. What if some people have nothing left to fear?'

Alfred thought for a moment.

'Everyone's afraid of something, sir. An angry man wearing a bullet-proof rodent costume and flying around using nothing but a cape would do it for most people.'

Bruce was not satisfied by Alfred's glib reply. 'But not everybody, Alfred. Not everybody is afraid of the same thing. The murderer. He said he wanted to meet me.'

'Batman's not a symbol of fear, Master Bruce. He's a symbol of justice – and if people happen to fear justice, then that works for you. For whatever reason, it sounds like this man doesn't.'

'Perhaps he should.'

'I don't doubt it, sir.'

The Leech spat blood onto the pavement as he strode casually into the docks. His brown leather satchel was heavy, which always made him feel a little more secure. He met a contact every Sunday night. His business partner would never meet in person. Instead he sent a small, fragrant Italian man named Joey. Not Joe. Joey. He spat again. The meetings were unpleasant enough, but the Leech took all the company he could get. He slipped open the bolt to the old shipping container where he and Joey had recently been meeting. There inside, already, was Joey, sending a text message.

'Just a second, Paul,' he said, putting a palm up to face the Leech. 'Be with you in a second.'

The Leech had resisted the need to deal in pseudonyms when it came to matters of business. He freely let his associates know his real name, Paul Batten. Using his real name not only made things simpler, but it reminded him of why did what he did. Besides that, he hated the name the police had given him.

'Sure, Joey. Take your time.'

Joey had thumbs like an ape. It took him a good minute and a half to finish texting drivel to his girlfriend. Batten was very patient. Finally, Joey put his phone away, but kept his left hand in his pocket.

'Whaddya got for me, Paulie? Any news?'

Batten shuddered at the nickname. 'Nothing that hasn't made the newspapers.' Has voice was just above a whisper, contrasting with Joey's nasal half-shout.

'Except that the Batman…'

'The Batman will come for me. I'm certain.'

'From what the boss is telling me, you'd better be.'

The Leech shuddered again. Whatever Joey's relationship was with his employer, it was different to his. As far as Paul was concerned he and 'The Boss' were partners. If anything, Paul stood to gain more from their partnership, and he sure as hell had less to lose. He had the upper hand in so many ways. Noticing the familiar taste in his mouth, he spat more blood onto the floor.

'You really are disgusting, you know that?' Joey half-shouted, watching as the Leech wiped his mouth. From The Leech's facial expression, it was obvious the feeling was mutual. Joey continued.

'We need the Batman out of play on Wednesday night. 24 hours. Do that and we're all good as set for life.'

'I think we can afford to aim for a more extended period.'

'Extended period. That's classy, Paulie. Not necessary, though,' Joey said, shaking his head at the freak in front of him. 'Here, I got some early retirement presents for you.'

Joey's right hand reached into his pants pocket and took out another phone. 'There are numbers in here. Call 'em when you need muscle.'

He then reached into his jacket and withdrew a large envelope. 'Also, a bit of green.'

The Leech stepped in closer to take it and thumbed through the contents. There was at least forty thousand in large bills.

'Is that everything?'

'Nah, one more. Boss said I should ask about a 'Juliet'. That mean anything to you?'

'I'm so glad you asked.'

It was a code. The Leech had often longed for that name to drop out of Joey's big, dumb mouth. It meant it was time to kill him.

Joey caught on about half a second too late. By then he had 150,000 volts running through him. A couple of seconds later he was writhing on the floor.

When Joey stopped writhing, the Leech bent down and caught him in a back mount, wrapping his right arm around Joey's neck in a choke hold. It was over within a minute.

The Leech checked the body. There was another five thousand dollars from the same bill series, as well as a shiny new Colt revolver. He pocketed both of them and set to work. If he wanted Batman out of play, he needed to set an appointment. Then he needed to hurry.

In the small hours of Monday morning, Bruce caught the breaking news. Another body, that of a Joseph Valente, a known two-bit crook with no real connections, displayed publicly at the docks. Commissioner Gordon filled Batman in on the remaining details – the body was drained, but the blood had been used to write a message on the inside of a nearby shipping container:

MY CITY: GOTHAM

MY PLAN: SEE BELOW

MY CHANCES: GOOD

The font was precise enough to have been written with a ballpoint pen. On the floor of the shipping container was an appointment card for a nearby dental surgery, which read:

Thank you for choosing the BriteSmile Clinic,

BATMAN (alone or people will die).

We will see you at:

9pm this Wednesday (did I mention alone?)

A picture of two smiling children finished the card. The Leech had used Joey's blood to draw a puddle at their feet. Batman knew there was no way the police would let him go alone, even with such threats being made. He began to think about this new enemy and his curious fascination with blood. He hoped that The Leech was a little more than a lucky murderer, but he had his doubts. This was not going to be an enjoyable trip to the dentist.


End file.
